Love, Curiosity, Freckles and Doubt
by Elora Danan
Summary: She's hideously embarrassed and ashamed that he's about to discover that during their night of mutual comfort he was merely a substitute for what she can't ever have.


Title: Love, Curiosity, Freckles, and Doubt  
  
Disclaimer: Do I own them? Not so much. But if TPTB don't so something to accelerate the Josh-Donna love soon, I swear I'll sue them for the rights. Also, Dorothy Parker was a genius and in no way do I own her poetry.  
  
Feedback: Is a balm for the soul...rather like Ben and Jerry's. (And thank you so much to everyone who sent me some for my last story, "Break it to Me Gently." You all said such wonderful things and inspired me to keep posting!)  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: Whatever the name was of that terrible episode when Donna lied about the diary. Also, "The Portland Trip,"  
  
Summary: "She's hideously embarrassed and ashamed that he's about to discover that during their night of mutual comfort he was merely a substitute for what she can't ever have."  
  
Author's Thanks: Once again, to Alie.  
  
Four be the things I am wiser to know: Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.   
  
She has on a turtleneck and her suit jacket and a coat and his arm around her shoulder, but she's still cold. She gnaws hard on her lip to avoid shivering because she knows he'll ask her if she's cold and, quite frankly, she doesn't feel like speaking with him right now. She should have just said "yes" when they questioned her. She should have said "yes" and they'd have moved on and she wouldn't be out on this cold bench in the middle of November with her...well, boss and whatever else he may or may not be while the man she had sex with a month ago sits in a coffee shop across the street, learning the intricacies of her soul as completely as he had learned the intricacies of her body on that lonely night in October.  
Quite honestly, she's embarrassed. She's embarrassed that she spoke before she thought during that enquiry. She's embarrassed that she got caught. She's embarrassed that she had to let Josh find out. She's embarrassed that she appeared weak and thoughtless in front of him and that he came riding to her rescue like Don Quixote. But most of all, she embarrassed concerning what Cliff is about to read. She's hideously embarrassed and ashamed that he's about to discover that during their night of mutual comfort he was merely a substitute for what she can't ever have. The thought makes her shiver despite her efforts.  
"Are you alright?" he asks and his face is all concerned and she wants to hit him right between the eyes. She is so tired of appearing like a fool to him. Actually, she's tired of appearing like what she is, or was: a college dropout with a penchant for babbling and relationships that won't last. She's worked too hard to build herself into the woman she once promised herself she'd become—promised herself one night when her true gold love proved himself brass and her bank account had been leeched to empty and she saw a man on the news who struck some fire in her that she had let burn out.  
"I'm fine," she answers. She wishes she could make it come out hard and brittle and sharp—that's how she's feeling right now: hard and brittle and sharp and ready to shatter—but she purposefully softens her voice. She's angry that he hasn't noticed the new woman she's gradually grown into, but you can't blame a blind man for not seeing something, can you? Four be the thins I am better without: Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt  
A shuffling of snow catches her attention, and she turns to see Cliff, diary tucked under his arm, standing some thirty feet away from the bench they are sitting upon. Josh unwraps his arm from around her shoulders and goes up to him. It would seem that there has been some silent agreement among the three of them that she will remain seated, keeping herself uninvolved with this event that centers around her. The men exchange a few short words, then Cliff hands the diary over to Josh and both men turn away.  
He returns to her and she puts out her hand and he offers the book that has suddenly become so disgusting in her eyes. She takes it without a word and deposits it in one of her large coat pockets, but her hand remains outstretched. He looks at her blankly for a moment then starts a little with realization. He reaches into his suit jacket and removes two lined pieces of paper covered in illegible handwriting. She folds the entries for October fourth and fifth and stuffs them in the pocket with the diary. She assumes that since he has returned them to her, he will have no need for them. Cliff will not say a word about what he has read.  
They remain silent as they turn to go back to the White House and their respective cars and their respective homes where they can each fall into a dreamless sleep and then get up tomorrow and go to work and pretend that none of this ever happened. She walks just far enough away from him that he can't put his arm back around her. Her shoulders hunch involuntarily and the diary burns and festers in her pocket and in her mind. The snow shuffles again behind them and thy turn together, in sync, because that's just how they are. Three be the things I shall never attain: Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.   
"Donna?" Cliff is standing by the bench they just vacated, illuminated from behind by the streetlamp. His hands are in his pockets and his breath hangs in the air. Donna is randomly reminded of the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, smoke forming shapes from his mouth with each comment he makes. She looks at him expectantly.  
"Donna, I don't think you have a small sense of self-worth." The words, much like his breath, hang in the air, and her eyes lock with his for one very long moment. Her breath does not crystallize and hang in the air because, quite frankly, everything seems to have been sucked from her lungs. Then she forces herself to breathe and she smiles slightly with the corners of her mouth, but her eyes, still holding Cliff's, smile all the way. When she turns and begins to walk again, her shoulders remain upright and proud.  
She hears Josh hurry to catch up with her, and she turns her head slightly to look at him. His expression, his posture, his long-legged swagger—none of it has changed in the slightest. But she sees something in his eyes that she recognizes from every time she has asked to leave early for a date, and she sees something else that she doesn't recall ever seeing there and she thinks it might be shame. And while she knows that when she gets home she'll crawl into her favorite pajamas (the ones she wore when she stayed with him the summer he was recuperating) and possibly watch Harry harass Sally or Bogie woo Bacall and wonder at the unfairness of Hollywood's representation of love, a little tiny part of her latches onto that look in his eyes and savors it and stores it away. Later, she thinks, when she cries the buckets she always cries at the end of "Breakfast at Tiffany's" or "Far and Away," before she succumbs to the sleep that is really not quite as dreamless as she'd lead people to believe, she'll take it out again and admire it for awhile. Maybe she'll write about it in her diary. Three be the things I shall have till I die: Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye. 


End file.
